


Learning to read music

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [39]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: (Near the end so don't worry), Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Musical Notes as a Literal Language, Non-Explicit Sex, Other characters mentioned - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 21:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18455012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Took a break from all the angst.





	Learning to read music

**Author's Note:**

> Took a break from all the angst.

Maxwell was finally starting to get an understanding of this whole music language mess.

Or, at the very least, he was starting to pick up on the minor cues in instrumental voice.

Scratch that. He was starting to be able to understand _Wilson's_ voice.

The drolling, sometimes scratchy trumpet wasn't so uniform and monotone after a time in the mans company, especially without the both of them not so tense or frustrated as before, ready to wring each other's throats at a moments offense. While Maxwell may find the man rather infuriating at times, nowadays the atmosphere was much laxer.

Whether that was because the new monarchs reign was much simpler or because everyone had a rather stable grasp on the idea of surviving wasn't much on his mind. The lives of the others, in all their music screaming nonsense, was of very little interest to him.

Headaches aside, the few grudges still left bad impressions. Webber may seem to harbor no ill will, scratchy mush of a voice gargled and spider torn as it was, but Wigfrid still narrowed her eyes and deepened her own musical voice to almost deafening volumes whenever she so much as caught sight of him.

He'd much rather that be near never, truly, and in all honesty he had never wanted to end up back here. The memories, the almost camp arrest and the twisted remembrances made the thought of the camp itself leave a bad taste in his mouth. Being surrounded by the others, the near constant sound of whistled tunes and fluctuating song, was what he absolutely wished to avoid.

But a bad run in with a winter giant, sitting in the snow of his ruined camp and feeling utterly helpless at the thought of having to start over _again_ , had made Wilsons little proposal a might bit appealing. 

The short man hadn't known of the previous attack, or of the touchstone Maxwell had just barely been able to travel back from, but he had thermal stones in the pockets of his vest and his announcing, surprised shout of trumpets had at the time alerted Maxwell to knowing he had a witness to his misfortune.

Horribly embarrassing, that was, but the warm stones were welcome, and so too were the hands that found his to clasp tight to, lilting trumpet voice doing its ups and downs as the man helped him back to his feet. Maxwells own voice felt scratchy in his throat, disused in comparison, and the distorted wheeze and huff of his own instrumental sounds were almost offensive when Wilson hummed in what he could only guess to be comfort. Having his small camp, sagging tent and thrown together chests and lopsided, blackened crockpot beside the remains of his own personal works, smears of leftover nightmare fuel, useless now, everything useless, destroyed and smashed and cracked with the giants frozen crystal ice, was perhaps a sight that called for comfort of sorts to be had.

He's had his fair share of destruction, has seen it, the total carnage that left nothing to be salvaged, but one too many times left him with the impression that even _trying_ was a vain affair. Everything that had been his, gone now, dusted into shards, wasted, lost energy and sore bones and hungry days devoted to making his situation just barely liveable, and now there he was, in a situation every other pawn has been in before, back to the start. His efforts, in the end, bore no fruit.

As he should have expected, really. Maxwell remembered making this place unbearably hostile once, hopelessly inhospitable, and all the little pawns had suffered for it immensely.

Huh, back then he was sure he still had his voice. In all honesty, he couldn't even remember what he had once sounded like, before being rigged with vocal cords that only spoke broken notes of sound, winded and deep and all out of sorts.

Being surrounded by the others, once more, made the differences between instruments all the more sharp. Even the spider child seemed to have gained a flow to the sound from their throat, their clicking spider noises blending together as they learned their volume.

In comparison, Maxwell felt a bit behind the times. His music did not seem to fit in all that well, and he rarely spoke because of it.

What reason to do so when it jarred the flow of the camp itself? No reason to bring attention to himself when he didn't want it in the first place. Just by being here he had eyes watching him.

But, the suspicions seemed to be fading. The viking stoutly ignored him at times, busied herself with the others and gave him a cold shoulder, firestarter sticking her tongue out in childish retaliation whenever she heard his distorted mumbling, and for the most part the camp had seemed to have...settled, in a way he could have never imagined it to.

Even his niece, quiet as she was, had found a place. Her sister drifted close, warmed in the livings presence, and her echo of music matched Wendy's tunes in almost what he could call contentment. Abigail hummed when she drew close to him at times, sightless eyes betraying nothing to the rest of her fog shaped form, but he supposed having her attention meant something at the very least. Wendy herself paid him little mind, and even then spoke none. Lacking the use of words seems to create a divide where one could have once stepped over; Maxwell could not give her condolences, nor excuses, and the girl had decided to make her peace her own way.

Webber, on the other hand, found the lack much easier to handle. Perhaps it was the spider, the more base use of behavior, but the child had little problem clicking and whistling screeches up at him, tugging on his sleeve at times to lead him around, show off something they made or to get him places he had no reason to be around besides Webbers whim. They were certainly more physically tactile then he had ever thought they'd be, but the lack of understandable vocalizations must have degenerated their communication skills. Or, perhaps it was not a step back but a step forward; Wes was oddly similar when it came to the handsy department.

As expected, the mime had no voice in any capacity, music or otherwise, and like Webber was much more frequent with the use of touches and tugs and poking.

Maxwell, while able to deal with the spider childs insistent attentions, found the other man to be much worse. Sudden touch had never been his thing to begin with, and having the tall, lanky man do so with such theatrics was enough to set his teeth on edge and voice growling from his throat.

But, finally, Wes seemed to take a hint at the millionth time Maxwell snarled broken music at him for brushing up too close, the touch of hands on his shoulders as the mime tried to communicate something or other, and Maxwell was grateful enough that no one else had been around when his voice had pitched and snapped into wheezed panicky sounds, heaving as his frustrations and anxiety finally broke through. 

He hadn't expected the apologetic expression, or the fluttery way Wes had approached, waving his hands about yet not making any contact whatsoever, but whatever the other man had picked up from the interaction must have become enough. Wes gave him enough forewarning after that, and not in sudden, unwelcome physical touch thankfully. 

With that hiccup out of the way, Maxwell found his silent, almost dancing like company at least a bit favorable compared to some of the others. The mime, ironically enough, was not nearly so obnoxious.

In a camp like this it was hard to avoid others, listening to their loud flowing tunes and sung songs echoing all about as they went about the business of keeping the place afloat, and Maxwell did find himself reconsidering Wilsons offer time and time again, but the inevitable that would come after was enough to keep him still.

Surviving together, after all, was so much easier. Especially when the tempers were softened and simmered under a much thicker surface. 

Maxwell did not believe in time healing all wounds, not with what he has come to an understanding knowledge of, but it did leave an impact of sorts over the community. It was not an insufferable existence, at the very least.

And, Wilson was here as well. Not around as often as he wished, what with chores and gathering supplies for each season, but Maxwell was not sitting in camp idle either.

The shadows were much simpler to direct, to scavenge in wide surface areas, and when he brought back bags of whatever he deemed useful he was at least assured, in some way, that he was doing _something_.

It left him feeling disgusted, in taking this contentment of sorts from vain work for a place that could be utterly decimated by an ill tempered giant or a monarch on a bad day.

But each giant was taking care of accordingly, sometimes not quickly nor clean but away from camp, each hound attack was diverted, meteor fields were farther away on the map, amulets and effigies and touchstones accounted for, and the camp ran far too smooth at times. From what he knew, the Constant was not one to suffer its inhabitants with an easy living.

But whether a grand scheme or not, the days passed with little trouble. And Maxwell stiffened his shoulders and listened in on the music that the others created, broken voice stuck deep in his throat and feeling far too much at times to sort through.

Barring headaches and the near constant of _sound_ , it was almost as if being in one place under the same pressures day after day helped desensitize his distaste of it all. As if he wasn't used to the same old song and dance by now, but at least the camp had its differences.

The trumpet, he's found, was not nearly as loud or as annoying as he once thought. Rather, listening in whenever night fell and the camp congregated into its social chaos of sounds, it was almost surprising that Wilson could be so quiet at times.

Not to the level of his whispering niece, or as deep chested as the strongman, but flowing with the others in what they constituted as conversation made the instrument sound more finely tuned and played than not. The days of notes stammering off the tongue and screeching into confused babble seemed to be long past now.

Wilson himself did not appear to notice the difference. Knowing the man from before as he had, Maxwell found himself appreciating the change.

It was almost as if the stress and fatigue had been warping the other man's true voice, twisted it into a mockery. Now without that and here, in this oddly well to do place, the music was now actual song.

With the camp large enough, spread out to allow space, Maxwell busied himself with the small fire pit set at his tent and idly listened as the others retreated to their own sleeping arrangements. A guard would be posted at the outskirts, to keep an eye out and ear open, but that was far enough away from his set spot.

The level of organization between these people, with a language barrier no less, was still difficult to grasp. Almost baffling at times, but the old librarian was meticulous.

Wickerbottom had an ear to music, well before this place he knew, but Maxwell had still been surprised finding out she knew how to read each music score as they were handed to her. Her own voice was still incomprehensible, as was everyone else's, but when he scratched out words establishing he wished to live here, among them, words goaded on by Wilson and his persistent touches and murmured song, she had taken the work, adjusted her glasses to read, and given him a firm nod.

Even he found it difficult to understand, the language of music written in notes and small curled letters, his own no less clear as he's never read much music to begin with, but the old woman was the one to have seemingly kept this place from falling apart, the camp well and alive with her attentions.

He supposed he had her to thank for the ease of living he now had. The act of pulling pawns around and together for the sake of livability was far beyond him now.

Night fell swift, as always, bits of splintered wood feeding his small fire, and Maxwell heaved a sigh, the slightest hint of noise escaping him.

The hounds had come yesterday evening, driven back and ripping themselves raw on the tooth trap field, and today had been spent gathering wood and silk and glands to help with the few injuries left behind. He had helped with the farms in the morning, not a very becoming job and certainly not very welcome to be directed there, but Webber had tugged him along to help and Maxwell found it ever harder to deny the child.

They were trying to learn how to whistle their music, in the string scratching sounds of their voice, and Maxwell, goaded into making the same attempt, could appreciate the distraction. His tune didn't come out as quite well formed as Webbers whistling, but the child didn't seem to mind his failure in the matter.

But even with the tiring long day, no matter how his hands ached and his head felt heavy, fatigue creeping in as usual, Maxwell already understood that he'd get little to no sleep tonight. Laying in the tent, waiting for morning, was even less desired, his insomnia acting up, and he resigned himself to sitting at the fire and waiting for daylight.

Just as he seated himself, getting comfortable as the flames crackled along, the light quietness of the others background songs fading, there was a mild announcing song of noise.

The trumpets were not boisterously loud, not in a full yell or scream that he's heard before, and Maxwell lifted his head to watch the other man trot his way over, hand raised in greeting. 

The waddling fur laden form of Chester followed close behind, straying to a halt before plopping down with a canine heavy sigh, flat tongue lolling out as it panted. The creature was Wilson's favorite of companionable beasts, drool and noisy panting and all, and Maxwell grumbled to himself but let it be.

Just as long as it's saliva didn't end up plastered to his suit. Enduring as it was, the mess turned him away from Chester all too often than not.

The hesitation in him was only half a second, sound caught in his throat, before Maxwell huffed a low greeting in answer, watched Wilson as he plopped himself down next to him. His trumpets were quiet, lulled, a low ramble of sorts, and Wilson looked at ease, comfortable in this environment as he sung his music.

It did seem as if the man did better in company; all these distractions and social cues and somehow the short hermit was flexible enough for them all. Even knowing him as he did, Maxwell held no ill will towards him. 

On the contrary in fact. The trumpet song softened for a moment, the lilt rising then lowering in an almost gentle manner, and Maxwell was able to pick up on that right before a hand found his own and a kiss was pressed to his cheek.

Fingers entwined with his own, the other man still talking, in that quiet, soft turned way he spoke when they got to this, and Maxwell was able to huff an answer, deep and fringed sharp, feeling Wilson press against him.

The affection, as he supposed it was, wasn't new, not at all. The publicity was rarer, but no one was near to watch and that, at least, made him draw breath a bit easier. What the others thought was no matter to him, he'd argue this, but that didn't stop his hesitancy whenever Wilson was around and willing to reach out, take his hand into his own even with other survivors in the area.

There was a certain feeling in him, almost pride, as he quietly listened to Wilsons voice and heard the subtle dip and flow, as if he could almost, almost predict his words. Nothing formed, of course, but there was a softness there that made him lean into the touch.

Wilsons hands were calloused, rough things, but the level of focus he worked with them was used even with Maxwell, and he couldn't help but close his eyes and appreciate the hands in his hair, sliding to his neck and rubbing warm touch all throughout.

Wilson kissed with hums, the dulling of trumpets into something he could almost feel in his chest, and his notes up and went louder for a moment in exclamation. The fact that Maxwell felt a smile tugging on his own face couldn't be the reason, no, not at all, but still the quiet slips of song from the other man's mouth were soft and drawn and delicate, the change he could hear now so evident.

He heard none of the others like this, Maxwell knew, he could not identify, listen and notice the slight change, so subtle, the hints of behavior, but Wilson's voice was a flavorful mix of highs and lows and he wondered, oh how he wondered how he could have not noticed in the first place, the first time they met face to face and music voice to music voice. How could he ever have thought the man's voice was only the needle thin shots of simple trumpet and nothing more?

Those sounds pitched a second, almost shock, and then Wilson was giggling trumpet as Maxwell got his wits about himself enough to curl his arms about the man and press his lips to his neck, breath in and return the affection afforded to him.

Sometimes, still, he feared it. Even in this new setting, even now with this new understanding of Wilson's voice, of _Wilson_ himself, he still didn't know if his trust was fully there.

Pitiful, really. This man had given him all too much and he still wondered if it was as deep as he dare not think.

Those calloused hands found his face, tilted him downwards as Wilson pulled back to look up at him, and it was still hard, still difficult, to raise his eyes and look the man in the eye, to acknowledge that this sense of touch was indeed happening at all. Perhaps a dream in of itself.

A wonderful, hopeless dream for a fool, but this was a real true thing, tried true as Wilson pressed his forehead to Maxwell's own, muffled trumpet lilting and sliding in that soft spoken tone he got at times, often enough for Maxwell to identify and listen so closely to.

Perhaps, if they still spoke a shared language, they would be soft words, all too loving and pressed close in affection. But there was no understanding, no sense in the sound of this music.

Maxwell found that this fact didn't take away from the both of them either way, and he couldn't help the slow drawl from escaping him, quiet, quieter than he usually was, as if to try for a moment to mix the sounds.

A frivolous, foolish thought, and the moment the sound escaped him Maxwell had enough foresight to close his mouth. He'd much rather stay silent, prevent himself from wrecking the flow of the other man's song, as the distorted sounds within him were all too inflexible with this sort of thing.

Even trying to match with Webbers sung voice in childish whistles was near impossible. If he could not get his music to sit nicely with a child's, then he had little hope in doing something far more close to the heart with the man he cared for.

His stop quieted Wilson, unfortunately, having to finally look away as the man's eyes grew somehow softer, forgiving, and Maxwell shifted to rest his head against the shorter mans shoulder, heaving a worn sigh.

Ruining moments like these seemed to be in his nature as of late, wasn't it?

Thankfully Wilson spoke up once more, filled with silence between them with his far softer sounds, almost cooing trumpets as he wrapped his arms around Maxwell and let him lean against him.

The night, ever darker, was growing cooler. Summer was ended, autumn chills chasing the memory of the heat away, and it took a moment, Maxwell almost dozing against his partners shoulder as the man sung softened music to him, to recognize that perhaps a tent was more suited for the both of them.

Wilson was the one to initiate the move, poking Maxwell's side and speaking quiet tilting trumpet, voice subtly shading to something more of form, more balanced notes, and Maxwell heaved another sight, mumbling grumbled complaints as he say up straight.

Wilson disentangled from his arms, voice sung strong and normal, as was usual, and Maxwell was not pouting at being left but it certainly felt like it, watching the other man stand up, stretch and breath in deep.

But, perhaps for the best; the short man rolled his shoulders, yawned as he straightened his back, the twist of him moving and the quiet exhaled notes of contentment, and Maxwell could only let himself watch for a few seconds before realizing he was staring.

The other man was not the most attractive, nor the most handsome of the encampment, but Maxwell found something in his chest glow whenever he caught sight of Wilson doing something so naturally defining. The fact the man even existed at all, and was here, in front of him and so much alive, was almost enough to leave him breathless at the thought.

Now, was that the experience with the Throne and the Constant talking, or just his own pitiful awe for such a thing as the living? These people, here in this camp, shaping this hostile environment for their own use, they lived far more in a single day than he has felt for years upon that shadow seat, with Wilson practically the epitome of comparisons.

The utter lack of worded language, devolved into wonderfully thrilling sound, music so divided into subtle notes and solos and filled with the emotion of the speakers, perhaps made this all the more strengthened. 

As Wilson handed over the Eyebone to Chesters panting maw, raising a hand to pat the beast on the head and scratch it between the horns, still humming quiet trumpets as if in afterthought sound, Maxwell rose from his seat, own sore back aching in protest but ignored just as easily as ever. In one stride he hovered over the shorter man, barely gave himself the moment of thought before encircling his arms and practically draping himself over the man, pressing his nose to the back of Wilson's neck and breathing in deep, his curled greasy hair soft and thick.

Wilsons little trumpet exclamation was expected, smoothing out into cooed flowing song, hands raised to grasp his own as the man let Maxwell lean against his back and heave a sigh, untensing at the warmth in his arms, feeling each quiet breath and the faint press of a heartbeat. He hummed, softly, thinking little of his sounds for this mere moment, the broken distortion hidden away, muffled, and Wilson halted his own song half a moment before joining in.

It wasn't sung, not a true song together as he, perhaps, wished to hear, but the trumpet muffling was wonderful to his ears, breathing in deep the man's wild smell, exhaling the low sounds of his own thrumming hums, and loving every second of it.

Unsure paranoia and self unassuredness aside, Maxwell didn't think he could ever find a replacement for this. If it ever went away, forever and ever as things were wont to do with him, he'd find no singular comparison elsewhere, not like this.

Similar, perhaps, but there was only one Wilson, one wild hermit scientist of a man, one short trumpet singer in all of his affectionate glory, and Maxwell did not believe for even a second that he'd find another.

There would be no relief then, when this possible pity was gone. When this forgiving was all tapered out, when there was nothing left to offer his undeserving self, having earned none in all honesty, when he was once more alone in all his self drowning path, he'd find nothing like this again.

All the more, Maxwell supposed, to chisel the memory into his mind, to hold tighter and breathe deeper and remember, remember forever. He can't let himself forget this, and when he would be alone once more he would cherish what he had been given for as long as he ever could.

The idea was a comforting one, in all its foreboding. 

Wilson brought him back, song tipped and curving, almost a hint of worry before Maxwell straightened himself up, pulled back to clear his throat, letting the man go.

Perhaps too quickly, Wilson giving him an odd, almost concerned look, almost looking to sing once more, before Maxwell shook his head and grumbled out a few notes, low and deep and already twisting wrong at the edges, breaking once more. But he made a half gesture to his tent, a minor wave, raising his eyes to meet Wilson's own, and his meaning went across far easier than it had ever went back then, before coming to live in this place.

It was almost surprising, nowadays, to recognize his own understanding of how he communicated. Once, in the beginning, he too had stuttered and stammered, voice thick and foreign and unknown in his throat, but now it was just another piece of him.

A jagged, unfitting piece, in all its cumbersome corruptness, but a piece nonetheless. He shouldn't be all that surprised in all honesty; Maxwell knew who he was, and knew it was a fitting enough mark.

This tent was far better than ones he previously had, constructed well and cared for accordingly before he had come to live in it, and even with his presence it still stood as lively as ever. The inside was not nearly as tall as he wished, just barely passing his own height, but it fit rather well for Wilsons stature and did its job as protective tent in every sense. Maxwell did not find it wanting, so used to sagging tents and patchwork shelters. 

The dark inside was offset by its warmth, the blankets and cozy, comforting insides, warm air, and when his partners hands found his, trailed up his arms and to his sides, stilling him long enough for low trumpet to hum against his skin for another soft kiss, leaned up to reach him, Maxwell let his eyes close and was grateful for the tents presence in the first place.

Wilsons voice was a wonderful thing at times, music that shifted in tune and tone, so subtle and yet overlaid with flowing sound, the trumpets pitching at just the right moments in exhaled noise, sometimes softer lilting giggles and others low, breathless, enough for Maxwell to want to bury himself against the man and listen to his every breath, his heartbeat from his chest and his lovely little sounds, music to his ears. It was always enough and yet never, to run his hands down the mans bared skin and to kiss the trumpet calls from his mouth, the brush of his scraggy face and his calloused hands running touch over Maxwells thin shoulders, his back. 

It couldn't be said he was silent all the time, not at all, thought he hardly considered his own shaky exhaled notes and lower, deeper tunes to be anything in comparison. Wilson was so much more, in voice and body and form and every breath, the steady soft look in his dark eyes when his calloused hands trailed warm paths over Maxwell's skin, enough to cause shivers and then to press close, closer still, and for those brief few moments their voices mixed and wrapped about each other, bouts of trumpet and harmonium in quiet, passionate union.

In the afterwards, glow fading to encircle and hold close to his partner, for a moment each breath freeing and clear and feeling Wilson react in turn, hands finding his to hold tight to and cause another flurry of excitable, affectionate feelings to whirl in his chest, Maxwell found himself not having the care to cut off his own voice for the silence. Murmuring quiet notes against his partners skin, wheezing ever so slightly when they rose or pitched wrong, warm and sweaty and liking, no, far more of _loving_ the other man's warmth in his arms, and, perhaps now and for so long, even _loving_ the man himself, in all of who he was and everything he would ever be-

Maxwell found Wilsons answering trumpet song a comfort, twining with his own attempts, slowing or picking up whenever his voice faltered, and the swirl of feeling in his chest was just always too much, wasn't it?

The hand holding to his own, fingers linked together, stout short ones to his own thin, brittle bones, tightened for a moment, a hum of trumpet as the man wiggled himself back, close pressed to Maxwell even more so, and he couldn't help the hiccup of sound, warbling song that fell from his lips as he pressed close and buried his face to the back of the man's neck. 

It was music, for this moment. He sung it almost reverently, closing his eyes and fighting the fear of it breaking into distorted deep tones once more, clinging to his partner and hoping, so much so to never forget this man or what he has given him.

Wilson answered back after a stunned moment, almost as strongly even, trumpets rising to greet his disused song, the music evening out into something almost tangible, quiet like, and for a moment Maxwell felt, felt…

The words, thought, knowledge escaped him, and with that his stammer crashed, pitched wrong and dipped ugly distortion, and Maxwell quieted himself, eyes still closed and face still pressed to the back of his partners neck, breathing him in with every breath, calming.

The humming of quiet trumpets picked up, murmurs, and curling around Wilson, heaving a shallow, worn sigh, feeling every drawn breath from his partner against him, and he laid there, feeling warm and softened and all too caring, too full of feelings he would give no name to. 

He may never feel such things ever again, once time has passed and the sun and moon have done their rotations about the sky for an eternity, and his fears told him yes, it would be made so. But Wilson was right here, right now, pressed to him like some small, sturdy puzzle piece, just barely fitting to his clinging grip, and, for right now, Wilson wasn't going to go anywhere else.

His trumpets were right here, singing softly for his ears, for Maxwell to doze to.

And, at times, harmonium would join in, in his shaky, unknowing way, and those, too, were for Wilson to sleep by.

**Author's Note:**

> I've almost forgotten what it's like to write fluff.


End file.
